


The Past Becomes the Future, and the Future Becomes the Past

by Huntress456



Category: game of thrones
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2020-08-11 04:10:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20147413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huntress456/pseuds/Huntress456
Summary: Jon came back.So did her family.And so did the dead.





	1. Chapter 1

####  Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen, Queen of Ice, Mother of Storms 

Jon of House Stark awoke slowly.

She wasn’t sure why she had at first.

Her room was silent, only the sound of her breath echoed. Even the outside world was quiet, not that she could see much of anything. Her fire – _ her fire? _

At that Jon bolted upright, staring with wide eyes as they adjusted to the dark. It was a different room, she realised.

A different room without a fire to warn off the cold, a different room from the one she had been sleeping in for as long as she had taken Winterfell back from the Bolton’s.

She had been sleeping in there with only her ghosts for company, and then with a dragon whose snore could rival that of Tormund.

The Lords Room, and her familiar four walls were not to be seen now though. In fact, as she gazed around, she became more and more sure.

This was her old room, freshly dusted, and, most importantly, the thing that sent the shiver of dread down her spine; it was warm.

She had a single fur covering her lower half, and that was enough. When she had fallen asleep, the fire had been roaring, she had been snuggling up to her dragon, and the furs were so thick that she couldn’t see over them when she was lying down.

Jon of Houses Stark and Targaryen threw her furs off, and scrabbled out of her old bed, hitting the door with a thud. She shot up and out of her room, only stopping to grab a robe.

It was coming apart at the seams and covered in intricate snowflakes that cascaded down the length of it.

She frowned as she pulled it on.

Sansa had made her all new clothing when she had married Daeron, and her old robe had been thick and covered in dragon scales and falling snow.

Most importantly, Sansa had made her enough that when the first had begun to come apart, she had torn it the rest of the way and made it into something more useful, while Jon still had more to spare.

Jon hadn’t worn threadbare clothes since she lived in Winterfell, before the Wall and before the Walkers.

This robe had been worn for as long as she could remember, having been gifted it for her tenth name day, and she had continued to wear it even at the wall.

Last she had seen it, it had been burning, used as kindling when the snow became so thick that it had climbed up to the top of the battlements and spilled over.

Guards stood at their posts as she stormed out towards the battlements.

She didn’t stop to run a hand over the familiar walls, but she did take notice of everyone’s reactions to her.

It was as though they were seeing a ghost.

Jon wasn’t alone when she waded through the muddy courtyard, toes numbing in the cold. She climbed to top and slowed to a stop when she saw Bran standing there.

She almost expected to see him as he once was in her memories, a young child who could climb better than he could walk, for that is what she was sure she was seeing.

A memory.

Merely a memory of old turned into a dream of wonders. A memory full of hope and warmth, and no Others, or wights, or wars.

But Jon had never been the lucky sort. And she had also never been stupid. So, it was when Bran turned to her, his body the exact same as she last saw it, she realised this was real.

She wasn’t outrightly surprised. Nothing could surprise her much anymore.

Bran twisted toward her with the body of a man, but the eyes of something more.

“What did you do?” she asked softly, as though she feared the answer. She slowed to a stop next to him, staring out at the darkness.

Instead of answering, he simply said, “What is the last thing you remember?”

She thought about it for a moment, although she did not need to.

"It was cold. Wintertown had already frozen over. It was a struggle to get the fires going, even indoors. The Dothraki died first. Then it was the Unsullied. Then the Lords and the Ladies who thought they could brave it in their own homes. Then we were picked off, one by one. Some of us by the cold. Some by the dead when they came back. Even the dragons had fallen asleep and not woken up. It was only the Free Folk, Daeron with his dragon blood, and me with mine made of ice left. Sansa had sewn Ghost into a coat for me, so he could protect me from the worst of it, even after he had frozen over hunting. I remember going to sleep last night Bran, and I knew I wouldn’t wake up.” With that she turned to him. “So why did I? Why did we? I saw guards posted outside of the Lords Chambers. Father is in there, isn’t he? Alive.”

Bran simply nodded, and Jon slumped.

In some ways she was grateful, but now she would have to face him, and that was not something she was not looking forward to in the slightest.

“What did you do, Bran?” she asked again, now weary. She had lived through the wars and the cold once before. She had no such wish to do so again.

“We lost,” he said at first. “We lost. And not because we didn’t have the men or the resources. We thought dragons would help us win, but we didn’t account for the cold. Nan told hundreds of stories about how it was the cold that killed people. We always thought she meant the Others. The ones that bring the cold will kill us.”

“And they did,” Jon finished for him. “Just not in the way we expected.”

Silence descended, and Jon glanced down at her body. It was not that of a girl who had seen fourteen name days.

It was that of the woman she had been only yesterday, with all the scars to match. And when she glanced at Bran, he was the same as she had last seen him.

His shoulders were wide, having spent most of his life using only his upper body to pull himself around. His hair was longer. He could pull it back into a low tail, tied with a strip of leather, just as it had been the last time.

But his legs were thin, spindly even. Jon could tell that even through the thin layers of clothing they both wore. They were shaking. It was then she noticed the death grip his hands had on the battlements, and without even meaning to she slung her arm underneath his shoulder to help him.

He leaned on her heavily, and Jon braced herself against the weight. It wasn’t hard.

She was used to slinging around people far bigger than her. Most notably Daeron when he didn’t want to get out of bed and had taken to sleeping on top of her to make sure she didn’t either.

“Why does my body look this way? I would have expected our body’s to be the same as they were back when we all still lived here, together. Before…everything, I guess.”

Bran nodded, like he understood her question. But then he frowned and glanced down at his own body.

“I don’t know Jon,” he said, and Jon jerked backward in surprise.

“Since when don’t you know everything?” she asked, perplexed.

“Its weird, Jon,” he said, sounding…_human._ “I have all these memories, and I can still see everything that’s happening, but it’s almost like there is a door. I can close off all of that power, and I’m…me. I’m Bran.” __

He turned to Jon with a smile, and Jon let loose a cry and attacked him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

They fell backwards onto the ground, Jon rolling them so they hit side on. She didn’t want there to be the slightest risk Bran could injure his back again.

“I don’t know how it happened,” Jon started into his neck. “But I am glad you are you again, and not the Three Eyed Raven.”

Bran laughed. “He was a bit of a twat wasn’t he.”

And that was how Sansa found them. Hugging and laughing, their joy only increasing when Sansa ran and tackled both of them.

“You better have a good explanation, _ Bran,_” she snarled, as tears leaked down past her smile.

####  Sansa of House Stark, Slayer of Bastards 

The last time Sansa had woken up in her old bed, Ramsey had finished attacking her.

As she ran her hands down and over her body, she was sure that it wasn’t a dream. All of the same scars remained.

Just like Bran and Jon’s. Both wore the bodies she was familiar with. The one she had last seen them in.

Only Bran was now walking, and after a quick inspection, it appeared that all of their scars, except for those stabbing into Jon’s heart, we simply flesh wounds. Grazes.

In fact, it was as though they had been printed onto to their skin, simply decoration that could be washed off.

It was odd, thought Sansa as she stood naked in front of her mirror. Jon was busy rifling through her closets, trying to find something for the both of them. But just like their rooms, everything was made for children, not for the women’s body they now wore.

Sansa sighed and pulled on her nightgown, soiled as it was with mud.

“The suns finally rising,” pointed out Jon. Sansa turned and smiled.

That had been a rare sight only yesterday. But yesterday hadn’t even happened yet according to Bran, so maybe the sun rising would become the new normal.

“I am not looking forward to having to explain this to Mother and Father, Jon,” Sansa said, voice stern.

Sansa frowned, but didn’t bother attempting to soften it. Not when Jon herself straightened from rifling through Sansa clothes, a familiar expression on her face.

Jon is was Sansa dreamed she would have been as Queen, and far, far more.

Jon was fair, and she had lived as a bastard, a steward, a warrior, a commander, a Queen, a wife, a Free Folk, a dragon rider, and a sister.

If there was any person that could rule the Kingdoms, it would be the person who had lived at every level, except that of peasant.

Sansa had no wish to be Queen now. If she had tried to become just that, she was sure it would be her downfall. Just as it was Cersei’s and Margaery’s and oh, countless others.

Jon turned to Sansa, expression calculating. “They should be waking now. We need clothes. Sansa? Go steal your mothers. No wait.” Jon’s face turned cruel. “Wake Arya and ask her to get us clothes. And _faces_.”

####  Arya of the Faceless Men, Daughter of House Stark 

Arya had been gone for the time it took Sansa to get food for herself, Jon, Arya, and Bran before she returned, arms loaded with clothes for all of them.

She even got clothes that would fit Rickon.

Sansa had told Arya to wake him, but he wasn’t there when she went to find him. It had taken less than a minute for her to track him down, and when she did, he was simply sitting in front of the weirwood tree holding six direwolf pups.

Rickon was one of the Free Folk, from what Jon had been able to discover in the few moments she had last seen him.

_He was wearing Wilding clothing,_ she had said. _With a wildness only a Free Folk could have. He wanted to survive. And if he had weapon, I’m sure he would have turned on Ramsey and destroyed him himself. _

__

__

_How do you know?_ Arya had asked her.

Jon had simply smiled a secretive smile. _I lived out in the cold for years, and you lived with the dead for years. We found who we truly are. As much as we can pretend that we are noble’s dear sister, I am a Free Folk, just as you are Faceless._

For the first time since Arya had returned from Bravos, she found herself afraid.

It was only after that moment that Arya started paying more attention to Jon.

She saw how well she commanded those not willing to listen, and how well she could command an animal, as though the wild that lived in them lived in her as well.

Jon, even if there were hundreds of others in the room, would place wood on the fire before leaving, she would always acknowledge those she knew, and make a point to know those she hadn’t, as though in the past she hadn’t known someone properly, and it had cost her life.

But it wasn’t until she had seen Jon with the Free Folk that she had become truly afraid. Arya had fallen backwards and sunk to her knees and hadn’t moved until someone had asked if she was alright.

Arya had seen something in her sister, something wild and dangerous and something that craved to be free, and Arya was certain that given the chance, Jon would never come back to Winterfell.

And if Jon hadn’t been so honourable, Arya was sure she would have left Castle Black for the Free Folk had it not been for her Brothers lives in danger.

It was also why she had left Rickon to his praying. The same wildness lived in him now, and Arya had seen Jon nearly gut someone for interrupting her prayer.

She was sure Rickon would do worse if given the chance. And Arya was in no mood to fight her little brother, although he was no longer little.

So, Arya had left him praying.

He would join them when he was ready, and Jon had agreed that it was best. Then of course she had frowned and gone and dragged him back by his ear.

If there was one person Rickon could have listened too, it was Jon.

They had the same wild in them now.

And only the wild listened to the wild.


	2. Chapter 2

#### Tormund Giantsbane, Unwilling Dragon Rider

Tormund had awoken to the cold. But that wasn’t any different than normal.

So, it was no surprise that when he had awoken he didn’t feel any different; didn’t notice anything queer right away.

In fact, his main thought was about how, finally, he had gotten used to the cold. It felt almost warm. And it was only when he climbed out of his tent, a different one every night as the harsh winds tore at the seams and saw the True North and not the walls of Winterfell, did he realise things had changed.

Of course, he wasn’t sure of it right away. For all he knew, his memories could simply be dreams. It wasn’t the first time he had drunk far more mead than even he, the lover of bears, could handle.

But the longer the day wore on, the more Free Folk packed their things. It started small. The young ones, the ones that were the weakest, began to pack their things no matter how hard they were beaten.

That didn’t stop them though.

In fact, it seemed to make them more determined. When they left, they left with whatever food they could carry, whatever young children they could nab, and whatever weapons they could steal.

Mance said let them go from his curled-up position on the ground, and whenever the fire flickered, he appeared to age ten years.

That was what settled it.

Mance Rayder, King Beyond the Wall, was afraid of the one thing that could protect them from the dead, and there was only one thing that could make the tamer of Wildings scared. And that was being burnt to death.

Tormund didn’t envy him.

And he didn’t even care enough to say anything other than a short goodbye before he, and everyone that remembered, packed up and left for the Wall.

He didn’t know what to expect when they reached the Wall.

But he supposed he should have planned a speech in case they weren’t allowed in. Maybe he had gotten it wrong, and he had sent the Free Folk to their doom?

But whatever gods had seen fit to return him back to life, saw to it that the crows manning the Wall remembered them too.

Tormund had seen a few familiar faces, but not the Queen Crow.

What he had seen in excess of was crows, burnt in piles. One he turned over and recognised the rat face of Alliser Thorne. He stomped on him for good measure and didn’t stop until his head was pulp.

Some of the Brothers around him gagged, and view leered at him, and the ones he recognised had nodded in satisfaction.

When he rolled over another, this one lying next to a pile of sticks that he assumed would become a pyre.

“The old Bear,” one of the crows said. “He got murdered when he tried to have the others killed for trying to kill him.” He pointed towards the other bodies, and Tormund followed with his eyes, until they rested on the already burning mutineers he remembered from before. They were the ones that killed Jon. “We killed those ones ourselves.”

Tormund may have said something, but if he did, he didn’t remember.

He didn’t care anyway.

He just needed to get to Winterfell.

The brothers were coming with him.

And so were the Free Folk.

The others – the ones that don’t remember – were as good as dead anyway. Not that it mattered.

Tormund frowned when he remembered the dead, and Hardhome. Then he shook his head roughly, and let out a bellowing laugh. If they remembered, and he sincerely thought they would, they would already be at the Wall.

He smiled widely, glad he had left some of them at the Wall. Lady Val was one. He didn’t know the others. But Val trusted them, and he trusted Val.

Somewhere in the distant, as the walls of Winterfell came into view and the wind howled across the thousands of Free Folk gathered, a babe began to cry.


	3. Chapter 3

#### Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Dead Before His Time, and Confused Father

Ned Stark didn’t think he would wake up, and find the world set back nine months.

Of course, when he woke up that morning it was in a black cell with the knowledge that he was going to die, but hopeful that he wouldn’t.

Now of course he had a wife sitting next to him, more quiet than he had ever seen her, and his children had ushered him into his own solar.

They were old, with the bodies of men and women, and all the scars to match.

His children who only yesterday had been, well, _children_, and he hadn’t seen in what felt like forever, were now in front of him, all with eyes far older than what their bodies suggested.

All except Robb.

He hadn’t seen Robb yet. He didn’t know if he wanted to.

Sansa and Arya were in quiet conversation next to the fire, something that Rickon had set about doing as soon as he stepped into the room.

Catelyn had been asleep the last he saw her, clutching at her throat with a pained hand.

He had let her sleep. He didn’t even know her anymore.

He had heard the stories of her actions. He had _lived_ the consequences. And when he woke up with memory of his head being cut by his own sword, he had barely restrained from tossing Cat out on her ass and throwing Ice into the fire and hoping it would melt.

It was a good thing Ned Stark was frozen where Brandon and Lyanna were alive and filled with their wolf blood, because he knew without a doubt both would have done just that.

Well, perhaps Lyanna would have thrown the sword and hoped it gutted her.

Brandon hadn’t wanted to hurt a women, he just wanted to fuck them and then fuck off. Besides, soon enough his anger would have gone with the wind, and he would have simply kissed away the hurt.

It was a good thing Ned Stark was frozen, because the anger that had been building in him for the weeks he had been in those black cells had stopped festering and now clung to him in spades.

He did not think he would have been able to get up and move if not for the _anger_ that stuck to him.

And it was a good thing for Cat that he wanted answers before he decided what he was going to do with her.

He hadn’t known what to expect when he had left his room, the guards standing ramrod straight and faces pale, like they had seen a ghost.

Ned supposed, in a way, they had.

Then of course he had frowned and ordered them away.

They didn’t need soldiers standing inside of the family’s wing. Ones outside were good enough.

“Father?” a voice called, and he stopped in his tracks. He turned towards the familiar but not sound and said in a sad voice:

“Sansa?”

The red head had nodded with a weary expression, and he had done the only thing that made sense.

He had barely opened his arms before the pair crashed into each other with a _thud_.

And it made no matter that he was still in his night clothes and hers were covered in mud and she had the body of a women and cuts and grazes covered her arms where they prickled against the cold air.

Only a moment ago he had seen her screaming, and barely a moment later he held her in his arms as though a decade had passed in a second.

Next thing he knew, he was being ushered back into his rooms with promises of an explanation. But first he should get more sleep.

It was barely passed midnight.

When he had asked Sansa how she knew that, she had shrugged, and said she had to learn to read the stars when she wasn’t allowed out of her room.

Ned had nodded slowly, not quite understanding and not sure he wanted to, and maybe it was the shock of waking up with the memory of Ice slicing through his neck, but he had simply lay in his bedding, put a pillow in between himself and his wife, and not moved until the sun began to glint through his curtains before rising.

Distantly he pulled on his clothes, and found they fit differently.

They weren’t too big or too small. They were just…_different_.

Like they had been made for a different man from a different time who hadn’t lived and died and lived again.

Almost like he had gone away in side, like everything was too much and he just needed a moment to process, did he realise that some of Cats clothes were missing and his first thought was _good, serves her right to have hers stolen_ followed immediately by the complete feeling of…nothing.

As Ned Stark finished dressing and reached for the door did Cat sit up.

He turned slightly towards her, and found he didn’t care when she fell of out a bed, her knees hitting the floor with a _crack_.

She was sobbing, hair in disarray, blue eyes red, and snot dripped down to her chin.

She reached for him with a trembling hand and a strangled, “My love?”

Ned shrugged of the hand she had gently put on his shoulder, and told her to come to the solar when she is dressed.

He left her then, and he wasn’t three steps away from the door when she followed him, hiccupping as she combed her hair down with her hands.

She hadn’t even thrown up a fuss when Rickon, face wild and wearing clothes that looked like they had been dragged through the mud, sat down in front of the now roaring fire and stared at her with distrust…anger…_hate_.

Ned poured himself a glass of wine, and without even asking shoved the whole jug towards Catelyn.

Before they started talking, with Sansa standing next to Arya by the fire, and Jon staring out of the window, Cat reached for his hand and without thinking he slapped it away.

And he found he didn’t care.

Cat didn’t reach for him again when Bran started:

“I suppose you have a lot of questions…” but he trailed off when Ned rose to his feet, strode around the table, and hugged him.

It seemed he was frozen for a moment, before Bran buried his nose into his fathers’ neck with a sob.

He heard sobbing somewhere around him – no. Not _around_ him.

Ned was the one sobbing.

And he didn’t care.

Not when the sobbing descended into silent shaking and each of his children latched onto him in some way.

No one, not even a Maester, could have guessed how long the Starks spent locked in embrace, but Ned did know that they would be wrong.

The embrace lasted far longer than he had ever hugged anyone, and at the same time he felt like sending for some rope; just to ensure that his children would never be gone from him again.

Only once even Jon had tears in her eyes – Ned had checked to make sure – did they separate and return to where they were standing.

That was when he noticed Rickon sitting next to the fire with his angry eyes.

“Rickon?” he asked softly, stepping closing.

He held his arms open slightly, and stepped closer to him – only to stop and slump when Rickon flinched backwards.

A pointed cough came from behind him, and resignation filled Rickons’ before he leapt upwards and Ned was able to envelop his youngest in what was most certainly an unwanted hug.

Deep down, in the same place where his feelings for Cat resided, something _snapped_ and he squeezed his son so tight that Rickon had to tap out.

Ned only let him go when it appeared that Rickon was going to resort to dangerous measures, and even then, it was with a shuddering sigh and a hiccup – a remnant of the tears that still leaked like water from a stream.

Sitting down in his seat, he coughed loudly, and pulled from his glass for a long moment.

Then he asked Bran to continued.

“I don’t know how this happened,” his second youngest started where he sat on his seat, legs spread wide and elbows resting on his knees. “But I do know that the same thing is happened everywhere.”

“How?” asked Ned, willing to accept nearly every answer possible.

Bran shared a glance with someone to his right, and Ned followed his gaze to Jon, who nodded back at him with an encouraging smile.

“_I’mtheThreeEyedRaven_,” he said in a rush, before hanging his head in his hands with a groan.

“‘The Three Eyed Raven?’” The Dead Lord of Winterfell repeated softly. Noises of agreement came from around them, and he simply nodded, accepted, and asked, “Something from old nan’s stories? Like…” he struggled for the word, opening his mouth and closing it repeatedly, until Rickon of all people took pity on him and explained.

“Bran is like a greenseer,” he said. Ned noticed he didn’t even look up from the ground. He glanced around him and saw Jon staring at Rickon with a queer expression. “He can see almost everything, and he can wa-”

“Rickon!” Jon interrupted. Ned didn’t see her bother to smile to lesson the blow, something his kindest daughter had been known for. Eddard Stark felt a shiver run down his spine, and he couldn’t decide whether it was dread of what had occurred to make her change – to make them all change so much – or simply fear as what he had not been able to protect his daughter from. “Let Bran speak now,” she told him, and Rickon simply huffed and accepted.

Something like relief but stronger rushed across Brans features, and he sat up straighter. “Not _everything_ everything. Just the past, and the present.”

“No futures?” Ned asked, sipping at his wine.

Bran shook his head.

The fire cracked, and Rickon tossed another piece of wood onto it.

Ned nodded once again, sharply, before barking a laugh.

“Alright,” he said. Then, again: “Alright.”

It was silent for a few moments, and no one shifted. Not even the fire popped.

“Tell me everything,” Ned Stark asked of his children, and so they did.


	4. Chapter 4

#### Daeron of House Targaryen, Fire of Kings, and Father of Dragons

While, to a certain extent, the Targaryen’s were blood of the Dragon, and had a certain resilience to heat, they were also human.

Something that even Daeron himself had seemed to forget.

And it wasn’t until he had woken up to the screams of people being burnt by fire, back in the stifling heat of Essos, that the notion truly hit home once again.

Dare – as his wife had begun to so lovely call him along with stop being a dumbass Dare – bolted upright in his bed, the heat of Essos stifling after the very human body he was in had already gotten used to the cold of the North.

He was so used to the cold that even breathing was a chore as he tossed off his bedding and rolled onto his feet.

Then he froze.

Outside – he hadn’t been imagining it – was black fire spurting into the air among the fresh morning.

_…Drogon…_

Without a doubt he knew it, even though it was impossible.

For a second he thought the past years of the cold had been a dream, but a quick skim of his hands down his body told him otherwise.

Already breathing began to become easier, the heat settling deep into his bones and fixing itself there. It was as though the years spent in the North had been nothing but a fever dream, and he had never left Essos.

But from the feel of his body beneath his rough hewn hands, it had been nothing of the sort.

The scars of his life covered him like tattoos, just dotted onto his skin.

His hands were covered in calluses from holding onto the reins of a horse, his stomach and back and thighs ridged with muscle he had earned, and the inside of his thighs were covered in a layer of smooth but leather like skin, from riding a dragon bareback and having the scales cut into his thighs, leaving him with bloody and shaking legs for the first half a hundred times Drogon had been ridden.

More screams came from outside, and after dragons and White Walkers and mistakes made that could have been avoided if he just _listened_ he decided to learn from his past and just accept what he couldn’t change.

So that is just what he did.

Screams and shouts and the thunder of feet came from behind his door, and he tilted head.

For a moment he contemplated just going back to bed, but then the familiar sound of dragons roaring echoed from outside and he decided to simply grab something to use as a weapon.

Looking around, he remembered that the last time he was in this room he was a boy of thirteen, and that boy had been as useless as a babe.

But that was unfair, when he thought about it.

If not for who he used to be, he never would have been able to do what he did.

But that was also unimportant when the only thing he could find to use as a weapon was a carafe of oil that was greasy wherever he touched it.

Opening the door, slaves in a variety of dress scurried past.

A few had red marks on their skin from a fresh beating, and others were covered in soot and blood and smelled of smoke.

He payed them no mind as he turned and ran towards the sound of people screaming.

He skidded to a stop as he reached the outside and saw the damage.

For a moment he was stumped. Then he realised, if he himself had come back in the same body he had yesterday, it made sense that the dragons would be back in the same bodies they had when they froze.

A dragon, a black one to be precise was standing by what used to be Magister Illyrios bedroom.

Around his dragon’s feet were the bodies of dead slaves and dead unsullied and what looked like the remnants of one of the Magisters robes.

Dare smirked.

It seemed that even a dragon was repelled by the oils that covered him like a second skin.

For a moment he felt bittersweet, almost wanting to bring him back and show him what Dare had managed do to.

_Look at me_, he would cry. _Look at what I accomplished when you sold me off as nothing but a bed slave. You nearly destroyed the last dragon, and I brought them back_.

But of course, this sort of miracle would only happen once. He was surprised it had happened at all.

He was still staring at the Black Dread come again when he noticed he had been surrounded by Unsullied.

He flinched and was about to run when one asked him what his orders were.

It was then, and only then did it occur to him that he wasn’t the only one that had come back.

His smirked turned into a full blown smile, and the Black Dread roared to the sky as he told them:

“Sack the city. Kill the masters. You know your orders.”

And having fought for him for since those early days when everything seemed to be going perfect, they did just that.

They followed their orders, and by the time the sun had set and come again Pentos was burning and the blood of the Masters flooded the streets and for the second time in Daerons lifetime, the world knew the cry of dragons once again.


	5. Chapter 5

#### Jon of House Targaryen, Wife of Dragons and Lover of Dumbasses

Her father – for that is what he would always be – was taking this remarkably well.

Of course, he had always been one to accept his lot in life, never fighting for what was right.

Jon was glad that none of her siblings had gotten that quality from him.

If anything, they were twice more resilient than he ever was, but that did not surprise her.

What did surprise her, was how he was treating Lady Catelyn.

For all of Jon’s life they had been happy in their marriage; the epitome of a perfect life. But now it was as though he knew without having been told what Cat did, and how the direct result was the war of the five kings.

Well, she was a large factor in it.

The war would have happened anyway, but if Eddard Stark had not been murdered, then maybe it would have been a lot shorter if the North hadn’t been fighting every other Kingdom simply for the sake of vengeance.

And don’t misunderstand. Jon understood the desire for vengeance better than anyone – except maybe Sansa and Arya…and perhaps Bran and Rickon – but the point was, when she and her siblings had finally gotten justice, _their_ actions hadn’t resulted in the first King in the North in three hundred years murdered, and the Starks removed from Winterfell for the first time since the ages of the First Men.

Jon could forgive a lot.

But she couldn’t forgive that.

That also reminded her.

When she saw Robb again and after they hugged, she was going to cut of his cock and feed it to the dogs.

She tuned back in when Bran finished speaking, and Ned stopped asking whatever question seemed most relevant.

Ned turned to Jon, and after skimming his eyes down what was certainly one of his wife’s stolen dresses, asked her in a quiet voice:

“So, you married the King?”

Jon nodded slowly and couldn’t help the smile that bloomed on her face.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I did.”

“What kind of king was he?” he then asked, now sounding almost frightened of the answer.

Jon snorted, and didn’t get the chance to reply when Rickon laughed out a solid sounding, “Bit of a cunt really.”

At that Arya laughed, and even Sansa gave a smile. But Ned Stark scolded him, as though he had the right to.

Jon frowned. She would have to take control of these lingering thoughts.

While when they had first reunited, many days and nights had been spent reminiscing about the days before Kings Landing, and missing their father and his lady wife.

Days had turned to weeks, and weeks had turned into months of meeting where Lords would rein praise down on the Late Ned Stark and his honour. In those meetings Sansa had concluded that – something she had readily told Jon, who had then told the others – their father was loving and kind and honourable and stupid.

The idea had festered in her mind that is was her fathers fault for the things that had happened to their family and it had taken _Bran_ of all people to bring her out of it.

But the quiet thoughts, the ones that slip in in the dead of night with only the stars for company, they hadn’t stopped – and often she let them slide in.

Often, they were welcomed.

Rickon looked ready to say _you’re a cunt too_ when Jon gave him a glare. That was all it took for him to apologise and simply turn back to his hands. Metal glinted, and she realised he was playing with a knife.

Cat hadn’t even moved when her youngest child swore.

Jon was almost worried, but then remembered what she had done, and remembered she shouldn’t - _didn’t_ care.

“_Rickon_ simply meant that he was fair…” her smile widened, “…and always told him off for not doing what he was supposed to. Which was often.”

Having seemingly forgotten the swears that had fallen from Rickons mouth like they were a habit, Ned nodded carefully.

When it seemed he wasn’t going to ask anymore questions, Jon started issuing orders.

To Arya she said to find all of the ravens in Winterfell and bring them to the Maester’s tower, and to then bring every letter that arrived in the past week and every letter that was about to leave back to her.

To Bran she ordered to find out the current status of Westeros and Essos and write it down on paper. It would not do to simply forget the status of the world.

To Rickon she told him to go find the Direwolf. The mother who was filled with pups and was gutted by the antlers. Then, when he found her den, she told him to watch it, and then when the pups whelped, he was to watch until the Direwolf was killed and then take the pups.

He was to check in once a day unless specified otherwise; an order that was not taken well, Jon didn’t care how he reacted.

Jon knew he would do what she said, just as she knew where Dare was, he would wait for her.

To Sansa she asked her if she had forgotten anything.

While Jon knew she was a good leader, a good leader never turned away advice.

Sansa hadn’t looked shocked, simply nodded and whispered something into her ear.

Jon nodded and promised she would tell Arya later.

And then, because she knew Sansa was more maternal than any of her siblings even if she wished she weren’t, told her to take the Lady Catelyn for a bath.

Sansa had looked affronted for a moment, but Jon sent her a look that promised an explanation later.

She sent Jon a raised eyebrow as the door closed in Ned Stark and Jon Snow.

Before she sat down, she piled wood onto the fire, and stoked it for moment, before pulling two chairs closer to the seat.

She gestured for him to take a seat with a gentle smile, but Ned didn’t return it as he pushed his chair back only to sit before her.

“I don’t suppose you know what I’m going to ask you?” she asked him gently.

Instead of replying he simply asked what she wanted to know.

“I-I know you were there…at the tower of joy,” she started, only hesitating for a moment, but before he could intervene, she started talking with fervour. “And I know that my _mother_ named me Visenya. Just like Rhaegar wanted. But,” she reached forward and grasped him hands with both of hers. “Just because she named me, and Rhaegar provided the seed, doesn’t mean he is my father. _You_ are. _You_ raised me. There is more to being a father than simply being blood. Being a father means not having a child simply because you are obsessed with prophecy. _You_ are the reason I am who I am, and I will forever love you for that…_father_.”

It was only then, when she was panting from having spoken, and tears leaked from her eyes did she realise he was crying too.

Then they were hugging, and Jon hadn’t even realised they had moved.

The chair slipped away from her, but she didn’t touch the ground. Instead, her _father_ hugged her to his chest and didn’t let her escape his arms.

For nearly three years she had time to process and accept the news.

If it weren’t for Sansa telling her to take her head out of her ass and simply kiss the man – in less than delicate language – and Arya’s own stories about her lost love (Gendry had died behind the wall. If there was one thing Jon regretted, it was letting the boy die because of his own stubbornness) then perhaps Jon would have spent the last three years of her life pining for Dare, and he would have spent the time pining for her.

Of course, Dare wouldn’t have simply let it be.

Three times he had confronted her about it; stolen kisses in hidden alcoves, and when she had gotten far more drunk than she should have, tucked her into his bed instead of hers.

When she woke up, she half expected him to be curled around her. And if he was, she would have probably stabbed him and accepted the consequences with open arms.

As it were, he was a perfect gentlemen; sitting in a rocking chair and drooling onto his chest.

The only thing he had done was remove her shoes, and even wrapped her cloak more tightly around her.

A week later they were in the same bed, but this time Jon sober, and no longer struggling with her feelings.

The father and daughter separated with many a snotty noses and laughed when each saw the mess they had created.

Ned told her, still holding her hand, that she could ask any question she would like, and he would answer with open arms.

Jon was about to take him up on just that when Arya burst in, breathing heavy.

“Robb’s awake,” she cried. “And he’s trying to kill Theon!”


End file.
